


five times Molly Hooper lent Sherlock Holmes a helping hand, and one time he made her coffee

by verity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: holmestice, Friendship, Gen, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's always looked out for Sherlock Holmes; it's taken him a while to learn how to look after himself. (AU in which Molly and Sherlock meet at university.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times Molly Hooper lent Sherlock Holmes a helping hand, and one time he made her coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch hit for **tartancravat** for **holmestice**

**2016**  
Molly divvied them up with Florence Hudson several weeks in advance.

"You take John," she said. "I'll take Sherlock. His mother likes me better, and if I'm in the room she can't ask Sherlock why he isn't marrying me."

"Terrible woman," Florence said. "Another biscuit, dear?" She held out the plate.

"You're better with John, anyway," Molly said, taking one of the chocolate-dipped ones. They were her favorite. "Thanks, Flo."

"Of course." Smiling, Florence reached over and patted Molly's arm. "I'm so happy for our boys. I didn't think I'd live to see the day Sherlock—"

"I didn't think _he'd_ live to see the day," Molly said drily. "But here we are."

 

**1996**  
By his own count, Sherlock Holmes had three friends at Cambridge: Victor Trevor, Sebastian Wilkes, and Molly Hooper. By Molly's count, he had one.

They met the second time Sherlock fell out of his window (the first time, he was high; this one, he was desperately trying to open the damn thing so the smoke would dissipate) and onto the bushes below. He was a second year reading chemistry at Trinity and Molly a lowly fresher reading medicine. She had been a Girl Guide since primary school and had very good first aid training, so she fished him out of the snow, checked his vitals, and gave him some tea.

"You don't seem to have a concussion." Molly peered at his pupils again, "And your capillary refill is good."

"You can let go of my hand now," Sherlock said, scowling and pulling away. 

Molly laughed at him and watched his expression go dark. "Oh, I don't mean it that way," she said. "I'm just glad you're all right. You needn't be embarrassed. I fell right off my roof when I was eight and broke my arm right in front of my mum. Heard about that one forever."

"Roof?" Sherlock said.

"I used to go up there and read. I've got three older brothers, and my mum's very—I was a morbid kid, they'd tease me about what I liked to read, murder mysteries and crime novels and that sort of thing." Molly shrugged. "Still like it. I want to be a coroner. What about you?"

"I don't know." Sherlock shrugged; on him, a shrug was expressive, expansive. "Something interesting."

"Something with fire?" Molly asked, eyeing his scorched scarf.

"It was an _experiment_ ," he said, eyes narrowing. Some melted snow dripped from his rapidly curling hair onto his cheek. He was like a sad, skinny, lonely teddy bear. Molly thought about how he'd looking falling from his window, arms flailing and lanky frame following after, and how surprised he'd looked when she came over and helped him up. 

"I set an oven mitt on fire once," Molly said. "Not on purpose, though."

"Hmm," Sherlock said. He held up the mug Molly had given him: it had the Girlguiding logo on the side. "Is there more tea?"

 

**2010**  
"Friend," John said, thoughtful. "What kind of friend? Is he an ex?"

"No," Molly fiddled with her napkin. "Just a friend from uni. He's just found a lovely new place, friends with the landlady, it's a great deal."

Harry was another of Molly's friends at uni. They'd never been close, but liked each other well enough to catch up every now and then over a bottle of wine. John was her older brother and Molly was single, which sounded fine in theory but lacked something in practice.

"Thanks." John smiled at her. "Sorry, I'm sure you were expecting, well, something other than my quest for a flatshare. My life's a bit dull, I'm afraid."

"I work with the dead," Molly said. "Yours has to be more interesting. Promise."

"Hmm." John looked up, away, for a moment. "I'll take you up on the introduction, anyway. Getting out from under Harry's—"

"—I know, I know," Molly said with a sigh. "Well, that's as it is. Meet me at Barts tomorrow, maybe you'll hit it off."

"Sure," John said. He held up the menu the waiter had left with them. "What do you think about dessert?"

 

**2012**  
"You need a body," Molly said. "Okay. I can do that."

Sherlock looked desperate, hunted: she hadn't seen him like this since before he got clean. "Yes," he said. "John has to believe it."

She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "That's all right," she said. "I've got you."

 

**2016**  
And here they were, standing in the room that the church usually used for brides. John had wanted a church wedding for some inexplicable reason, and Sherlock was going along with it to piss off any number of people but mostly to make John happy, and now Molly was tying his bow tie neatly and blinking away a few tears. She stepped back to check that it was level—it was—and sniffled. 

"Oh, _Sherlock_ ," she said. "I'm so happy for you. Turn around, check yourself in the mirror. You look dashing."

Sherlock's mother huffed somewhere in the vicinity of the settee. It was the closest piece of furniture to the door.

Obediently, Sherlock turned. "I look like a penguin," he said, adjusting the fall of the tails. "I hate these things."

"You've memorized everything?" Molly said, looking down at the list she'd made with Mrs. Hudson all those weeks ago. "You're wearing something blue? You have the rings?"

"I haven't forgotten anything," Sherlock said, although he patted his breast pocket again to check. "But thanks for the help."

  
**  
_— and —_   
**   


**1998**  
"It's two in the morning, Sherlock." Molly rubbed her eyes. She'd fallen asleep reading again; end of year exams were nigh. "We were supposed to meet this afternoon. Lunch, remember?"

"I brought you coffee," he said, holding out the mug. It had a chipped, gilded rim and flowers on the side, clear signs Sherlock had raided the communal cupboard. The coffee inside was just the right shade of milky brown.

"Sherlock," she said, shifting on her feet. He looked so embarrassed and disappointed, though, that she couldn't be angry. "All right, come in. Might as well get some revision done before that goes cold."

Three sugars, a dash of milk. It was the best coffee she'd ever tasted.


End file.
